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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25185640">Kind Regards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentblood/pseuds/crescentblood'>crescentblood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aphrodisiacs, Captivity, Fire Emblem Kink Meme, Gang Rape, Other, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Writing on the Body</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:28:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,365</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25185640</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentblood/pseuds/crescentblood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferdinand von Aegir was a nobleman, and as a noble he knew full well that a man's armoury was only a secondary weapon to the might of his correspondence.</p><p>Or so he had thought, but even he had been ignorant to the true devastation of an aptly-written word.</p><p>Kink meme fill.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ferdinand von Aegir/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FE3H Kink Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kind Regards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Response to a <a href="https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=2349384#cmt2349384"> kink meme prompt</a> requesting Ferdinand and body writing. Fill-A-Thon is on! Will I get much done? Only chronic fatigue will decide.</p><p><b>Please take note of the fic's tags.</b> Do not read if you are a minor or affected by such topics. Stay safe, stay healthy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The quill was mightier than the sword. In the right circumstance, a single word could be more deadly than the bite of a blade. Ferdinand von Aegir was a nobleman, and as a noble he knew full well that a man's armoury was only a secondary weapon to the might of his correspondence.</p><p>Or so he had thought, but even he had been ignorant to the true devastation of an aptly-written word.</p><p>For example, a spell inscribed on the nape of his neck, his mane brushed to the side in the mockery of a lover. A single word that locked his bones in place, leaving him as a limp, exquisite doll for his captors to defile with their prying fingers and hungry cocks.</p><p>But even then he was aware that it was not the letters alone that bound him, but rather the magic that was woven in-between their strokes. He had not yet been felled by the power of words alone.</p><p>No, that would only happen in the ensuing days of anguish.</p><p>Or, at least, Ferdinand <i>assumed</i> it was days, but with no window in his cell, no other means of recording the time, and no idea how long he slept, it could have been anything from two days to two weeks that he had been held prisoner. For what reason, he wasn't entirely sure, but the robes of those that took joy from drawing out his haggard moans were recognisable as belonging to the devils that danced in the dark, always out of reach of the sun's revealing light.</p><p>His only other clue to their identity was the scrawl that they left on his naked skin. Every time that they took his body as their own, they would leave an inky blemish upon it, like some sick memento. None of the words were spells to keep him helpless and pliable. No, they were only for his captors' amusement.</p><p>Ferdinand didn't read what they had written. Even if his body had been made the vessel to the most beautiful sonnet of his generation, it would do nothing to wipe away the filth that accompanied the scriptures. One man had ravished him from behind, hissing indecencies into Ferdinand's ear while that selfsame vulgarity was inked into the base of his hairline. Another had thrown him over the prison's bed and forced a cock past Ferdinand's lips while his head hung over the edge, and meanwhile their companion had straddled Ferdinand's chest and brought a quill to his desperately bobbing throat.</p><p>Once, they had spiked his food with a vile concoction that left him as needy and wanting as a beast in heat. They had left him there on the floor, watching him pant and whine obscenely as they brought themselves to pleasure, until one of them knelt down and began writing along his inner thigh. The light scratch of the nib against such sensitive skin had brought Ferdinand to the edge, until he was begging his captors with <i>tears</i> in his eyes to touch him, or at least release their foul magic so he could touch himself.</p><p>He could still remember how the writer had stared at him then- and though he had seen nothing beyond their mask, Ferdinand was as certain as the day was long that their smile had been one of utmost malice. They had brought the feather of their quill up the length of his shaft, a touch as gentle as a breath, and it had been enough to bring him to fruition, thick strings of his seed spurting over his own heaving chest.</p><p>It made him sick to remember such a humiliating display of submission.</p><p>And it was only after he had spent himself that they took turns claiming him, one cock after another thrusting into his weak and defenceless body. One of them brought a gloved finger to his chest and left a trail through the semen, forming a word more temporary than the black stains across his skin, but one that would nevertheless remain burned into Ferdinand's mind. It was a word of his own making. A reminder of his weakness.</p><p>Once the third man had released his seed, he took the quill in hand and left a mark on Ferdinand's forearm. Ferdinand stared at the foreign letters as the fourth captor gripped him by his bruising hips and buried himself inside. It was not the language of Fodlán, or that of its neighbouring countries. The penmanship was elegant, ancient. A language long-lost to time.</p><p>Ferdinand focused on the word for as long as he could, his only respite against the base cruelty inflicted upon him. But then the fifth man was larger than the rest, much larger, and Ferdinand could no longer see anything but stars as his insides were torn apart anew.</p><p>He regained consciousness later, after they had all left him in a stew of seed and sweat. His artificial lust had dissipated, and the magic sealing his body had been released just enough for him to crawl up onto the bed and curl into the thin cover. His lips were wet and tasted of salt. He shuddered to think what they had done to him while he was unconscious. With hesitation he scanned his body, but could not find any bruising or scripture that he didn't recognise.</p><p>Which wasn't to say it wasn't there. One of the men had previously wrote something along the small of Ferdinand's back, just out of his eyesight. His companion had laughed coarsely upon reading the words, and then fucked Ferdinand senseless.</p><p>But no matter how curious he was, Ferdinand would not read the words that he could see. With no weapons, no clothes, and no say over his own body's actions, this small act of defiance was the only control he had left. He was a von Aegir, and he would not submerge himself in vulgarity if he could help it.</p><p>The exception was the foreign word now on his arm, the one he couldn't understand even if he wanted to. Its mystery was his new lifeline, keeping his thoughts occupied while his body was perverted. Its meaning was surely crass- <i>degenerate, harlot</i>, some other insult he couldn't even imagine- but it was the puzzle of it that fascinated him, not the end result. What secrets did the language hold? What could it tell him about his prisoners?</p><p>It was those questions that kept him going even as his dignity and pride were stripped from him, piece by piece. He would kneel like a dog and take a cock in both his mouth and his behind. He would be dragged onto one of his captors and forced to ride their length like a two-bit hussy. He would let them yank his hair as they ravaged him, like the wild mares he had always been so adept at taming. Every time they would add another word to the collection, and every time Ferdinand would avert his eyes.</p><p>If they were not acknowledged, then those words held no power over him. He wore that fact like armour over his heart.</p><p>And, like any armour, a single chink would prove to be its undoing.</p><p>Ferdinand would not read them, and didn't care if his captors perused their own creations. But then came the fateful day when the prison cell opened and it was not a masked man come to pleasure himself, but a woman with snow-white hair and fire in her eyes.</p><p>She had come to save him.</p><p>But she could see, she could see, she could see-</p><p>No more could he maintain his hardened composure. Ferdinand screamed, hurrying away from the exterior light and throwing himself to the bed, its cover torn away and flung over his naked form. But he could not cover himself in his entirety, and knew that even if he pulled in his food-starved limbs as tight as possible, his debauched skin could not be hidden entirely from the light.</p><p>He could not speak. She did not either. The sight of her valued minister, broken and sobbing and scratching at the hundreds of scriptures that blackened his once-golden skin?</p><p>It was a scene worth a thousand words.</p>
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